War of the Laurels
by spectre4hire
Summary: There is no Duncan at Highever when Howe reveals his true colors, but Edmund Cousland survives Howe's treachery along with the rightful heir of Highever, his nephew Oren. The Fereldan Civil War changes drastically when it's a Cousland who leads the resistance.
1. 1: Edmund

**A/N: This was a plot bunny that came to me during my recent playthru of Dragon Age: Origins as a human noble and it was just too tempting to ignore. Obviously this is AU so liberties will be made.**

**War of the Laurels**

**By Spectre4hire**

**1: Edmund**

It was gone.

He had lost everything; His home, his friends, and his family.

_Well, not all of his family,_ he silently corrected himself.

Edmund Cousland snuck a glance at his nephew who thankfully found sleep in the comfort of Edmund's mabari, Sarim, who was curled up beside the young boy. Oren let out a whimper before restlessly stirring beneath the makeshift blanket of his uncle's cloak. After a moment or two he settled back down and slipped back into a peaceful slumber.

They had come in the night. They were welcomed guests. They were friends and allies.

It was all a lie.

They had struck when the castle slept. With surprise and strength of numbers they overwhelmed the few guards on duty. Unmolested, Howe's men poured into the castle corridors resembling a ravenous horde attacking anything that moved.

Battle had a way of darkening a man's heart, clouding his perspective, and mudding his consciousness. It was an excuse for civilized men to feed off of their darkest and most innate desires.

They raped the faithful priests and sisters of Andraste. They butchered the loyal servants and guards, culminating in the betrayal of their liege lord when they sacked the castle and put those they swore to honor and obey to the sword-the Cousland family.

_Howe,_ he growled at the name. He was responsible. He was the master behind this treachery and bloodshed. Howe had preyed on Bryce Cousland's trust, and took advantage of his kind heart which he then targeted when he stabbed Edmund's father in the back.

Edmund tightened his grip on the Cousland family sword that had been resting on his lap. The sword was a precious family heirloom that dated back to the time of King Calenhad who united Ferelden nearly four centuries ago. It was one of the few items from his ancestral home that had escaped Howe's attack.

His green eyes returned to the glowing embers of their dying fire. Oren and Sarim nestled together close to the heat of the flames to combat the chill in the air. They had made camp here less than three hours ago. Getting off of the road and finding a secluded place in the surrounding woods. It had been risky to stop so soon after escaping the castle, but it had also been necessary.

Oren was not built for these trials and tribulations that were now besieging him. Exhausted, frightened, and unable to stay on his feet, they had been forced to make camp. The boy wouldn't even turn nine till the spring, and already he had witnessed a dozen lifetimes worth of bloodshed, chaos, and devastation.

When they did make camp, Oren had whimpered and sobbed in Edmund's arms until exhaustion finally consumed him; drifting off into sleep Edmund hoped his nephew could find some peace and refuge in his dreams.

_Poor Oren, _he thought softly. Remembering his nephew's innocence before the attack, he lived in the fabled stories of Black Fox and the other heralded heroes of ages past. How he wielded his imaginary blade fighting off a dire bunny with his sword of truthiness.

It was almost enough to bring a small smile to Edmund's cracked lips.

Before the attack he remembered Oren's earnestness to train with real steel, his mother's apprehension, and his father's support and encouragement. Oren had begged Edmund to train him while his papa and grandpa were down south. So that he could live out his dreams of becoming a knight worthy of bard's songs, who fought dragons and slay all sorts of monsters.

Now Oren understood which monster had the darkest of hearts-men. His innocence snuffed out. It was replaced with enough fear and grief to drown an ordinary man. It would not be the images of his picture books he would remember, but the images from the sacking of Cousland Castle.

His mother's bloodied corpse.

He had seen the horrors of battle unfold before his eyes as men were sliced and cleaved, limbs hacked off, heads removed. Men and women screams filled with anguish before being silenced by the flash of steel.

He watched his grandmother die before his eyes. Her body peppered with arrows.

He saw his grandfather crawling on all fours like a wounded beast. Bloodied, and dying, crying and grieving at all he had lost before he too died.

Edmund worried for his nephew after having witnessed such horrendous acts at his tender and impressionable age. When Oren was able to finally process and dwell on everything that has happened, when it all sunk in. How would his nephew react? How would he respond to understanding that his mother was dead, his family dead, his house burned? His life had been forever changed.

He knew he faced a difficult dilemma. Edmund knew they had to continue to travel with haste to stay ahead of Howe, but he also couldn't overexert his nephew. His nephew's body couldn't endure the same hardships and grueling conditions that men could. It couldn't go as long without food, or water, or rest. And already Oren was in a weakened state, emotionally and physically.

Mulling over how to best move forward with his nephew, Edmund grabbed a sausage from his bag. He had made sure to pack his and Oren's bags to the brim with food, supplies, and water before they left the castle. His shuffling of the food hadn't gone unnoticed by Sarim. The large dark furred mabari raised his head up from where it was resting on Oren's back, his intelligent black eyes transfixed on the sausage.

Edmund held up his hand to keep his mabari from moving.

Sarim let out a low groan to signal his discontent but nonetheless he obeyed the command. Returning his head to rest on Oren's back.

Satisfied, Edmund put the sausage over the embers after adding some more kindling. The flames were rejuvenated and he was able to cook it quickly. Even in his hunger, the food didn't go down smoothly. His stomach rumbled and protested before the sausage his stomach had been filled with nothing but dread and anguish. It didn't mix well with the food, but thankfully he was able to keep it down.

They'd be setting out soon. He was determined to leave at first light. And looking up at the sky, Edmund was sure that would be within the hour. He wanted to continue to put as much distance as he could between them and Howe's forces in Highever.

It had only been hours ago that they had escaped the perils and calamity of Cousland Castle. They had used a secret passage hidden in the larder that led out past the walls of the castle turning into a causeway that ran off nearly a mile away from the castle, and out beyond the walls of Highever. He could still remember looking back after exiting the causeway, needing to see one last glimpse of Cousland Castle, but instead all he saw was a bright orange glow. That was all that remained of his ancestral home.

Their escape did not come without a price.

His mother, and Teyrna of Highever, Eleanor Cousland was killed before they reached the larder. It took four arrows to bring down the battle maiden whose bravery on the battlefield during the Rebellion was legendary. She had just enough strength to say a few parting words before death took her.

From there, determined to protect his nephew and rightful heir of Highever, Edmund led his small array of forces of servant and guards to Cousland Hall. He wanted to regroup with any other survivors as well as find his father. But before he could reach the Hall, remembering his mother's words he sought out the family treasury to recapture some of the family's most precious heirlooms..

Howe's men were waiting for them including a few knights. However, Edmund was no novice when it came to sword and shield. He had won countless melee tourneys in his youth all throughout Ferelden, and his time in Orlais had helped to transform him from a tourney champion into a battle hardened warrior. He was able to cut his way through Howe's forces to retrieve the items his mother had wanted to save.

Those next who paid the price for defending Edmund and Oren were the remaining servants, soldiers, and handful of knights in Cousland hall led by the valiant and loyal Ser Roderick Gilmore. They perished in Cousland Hall to protect Oren and Edmund's retreat. They barricaded the gates, and were determined to fight to their dying breath for the Cousland family. They were heroes, fighting with courage and loyalty that could not be shaken. Edmund was sure that one day bards would sing of their legendary act.

It was not until they reached the entrance to the secret passageway did Edmund find his father. Crawling on all fours like a wounded beast, bleeding and silently sobbing was Bryce Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever. His hand pressed to his side, slick with blood from an ugly wound. His father had died in his arms within minutes of their arrival.

And with that last sight, Edmund had grabbed his nephew whose eyes were red and puffy, tears stained his cheeks, the blood of his mother stained his clothes. He led his nephew and mabari through the passageway and out of the castle.

Edmund felt tears trickle down his cheeks, tasting the saltiness as some brushed up against his lips. His hands were trembling in his lap. He tried to steady them by holding the Cousland family sword, but still they shook. His body then began to shake, as he silently sobbed. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from being too loud. He didn't want to wake Oren. The torment had nestled itself deep within him, radiating an ache that he could not put to words. Strums of grief went through him, while a void seemed to expand within his chest.

_I cannot break,_ he reminded himself, recovering only after seconds of allowing his grief to seep through his demeanor. Oren is depending on me. I need to be his rock. I must bear this burden without cracking. I cannot show my despair, my own pain in front of him. I cannot allow myself to be overcome by grief. Oren will look to me, and I must give him all of my strength so that he can move forward. If he even whiffs my doubts, my fears then all is lost for both of us.

He looked over and was relieved to see his nephew was still fast asleep. He wiped away the tears with the back of his arm not wanting any evidence to remain of his breakdown. He shifted his position and brought his still trembling hands to the glowing embers of the fire. The warmth was most welcome for his aching fingers and cold shaky hands.

Lost in his thoughts of the attack, he looked up. Though the sky was still dark, and the stars were still glowing over the horizon a faint reddish light was beginning to seep into the skies. The sun would be up soon.

It was time for them to go. He was sure Howe would soon notice the absence of their bodies and when he did he would send out riders and search parties in all directions to find them.

Howe's treachery left Edmund in a very vulnerable position. There were many Banns, freeholders, knights and even wealthy families who swore loyalty and service to the Cousland family and the Teyrnir of Highever. Yet with Howe's betrayal he wasn't sure who to go to, or who to trust. He wasn't sure how far this treachery went and how many others colluded with Howe. If he chose poorly he and Oren would be walking right into the arms of traitors.

He believed his best bet was south. He needed to leave the Coastlands at once now that Howe held Highever and Amaranthine. By journeying south he could make for the Bannorn or even head east towards Denerim or South Reach.

With a general direction decided on, Edmund began to pack up their makeshift camp. He wanted to leave quickly and leave behind little to no trace of their presence. It didn't take long they packed light, and most of their things were still packed. He turned his attention to the embers, prodding them with a stick in trying to coax the flames to return. They did, so he rummaged through his bag to get two sausages to cook.

He moved over towards Oren and Sarim. The latter already alertly awake since the sausages had come out. Sarim's earlier obedience was rewarded when Edmund presented his war hound with a sliver of a sausage which Sarim gently took from his hand with his powerful jaws devouring it quickly before licking Edmund's hand of the greasy residue left behind.

Oren looked peaceful in his sleep, his expression content, his lips slightly curved. No doubt, he was having pleasant dreams. It seemed almost cruel of Edmund to have to wake him up pulling him out his dreams and back into the horrible reality the two currently found themselves in.

"Oren," Edmund whispered.

"Papa?" Oren stirred under Edmund's cloak which he was using as a blanket. His voice thick with sleep, as his eyes remained closed.

"No," Edmund answered, after a brief pause. "It's only me."

The words coaxed Oren. His eyelashes fluttered before blinking to reveal his brown eyes. Edmund could see his eyes taking in the situation as his mind was sorting out what was real and what were illusions from his dream. In seconds the full weight of reality came crashing down onto the shoulders of his eight year old nephew.

"Oh," Oren said, eyes swimming with unshed tears, his bottom lip trembled.

Edmund was quick to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, running his other hand through his unruly brown hair. "Come let's eat, you'll feel better once you do."

Oren sniffed, clamoring out of the cloak. "Okay," his voice cracked. Sarim attended the young boy with a few sloppy kisses on his cheek which caused Oren to muster a small smile before he hugged the hound's meaty neck, burying his face in Sarim's dark fur.

He offered his nephew a cooked sausage which Oren took. He delicately nibbled at the piece of meat while Sarim sat beside him on his haunches. The hound's eyes never leaving the sausage.

"We need to hurry," Edmund said, already having eaten his sausage in two bites. He was smothering the flames from their fire.

"So that Howe's men can't kill us too?" Oren asked matter-of-factly.

Edmund stiffened. He didn't know what was worse the words Oren used or the casual tone the eight year old had used to address their dire situation. He felt his throat tighten as he turned away from the fire, feeling his smile falter, but he forced it to remain on his lips.

"They're not going to kill us," He reassured his nephew. "I won't let that happen."

Thankfully, Oren seemed to take some solace in that. After a few more bites of his sausage he gave the rest of it to a patient Sarim who devoured the offering in one bite.

"Where are we going, Uncle?"

Edmund slung his shield onto his back and sheathed his sword before turning toward his nephew.

"Somewhere safe."

**A/N: **

**Please don't forget to review. It will be your feedback and input that helps me to decide if this is a story idea worth continuing. **

**Thanks for reading,**

**Spectre4hire**


	2. 2: Howe

**A/N: I just want to thank everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. The feedback was amazing. I was pleased to see that so many were interested in this story idea. I feared I might be the only one. **

**It was your kind words, thoughtful questions, and engaging comments that spur me forward. **

**War of the Laurels**

**By Spectre4hire**

**2: Howe**

The hall smelled of ash and death.

Its walls smoldered from the fires that went unchecked throughout much of the castle during the beginning stages of the attack. The floors splattered with blood.

Bodies lay strewn across the floor of the guards, servants, and knights who foolishly resisted the attack. They were traitors. All of them traitors to their dying breaths.

His guards and servants were milling around the hall, stripping the bodies of their clothes, armor, weapons, and any other sorts of valuables that could be found on their person. After being stripped, the naked bodies were piled in a corner awaiting transport out of the castle. Most would just be unceremoniously tossed into a ditch providing fodder for wolves and crows.

A few, however were to be strung up throughout Highever to serve as a reminder of who now ruled the Teyrnir and as a warning to those who would unwisely try to rebel against their new liege lord.

"Where are they?"

A soldier appeared beside him, "over here, Your Grace."

Howe smiled. He liked the sound of that. He silently followed the soldier over to the far corner of the hall where four bodies had been laid separately from the others who had been killed in the attack.

He looked down onto the face of Bryce Cousland. His face was fixed in a permanent display of agony. His eyes squeezed tight, his lips pursed together, grimacing. Looking down you could see the reason for the tremendous amount of pain that the traitor had suffered from before his dying breath. A nasty gash crawled up from his hip to about half way up his abdomen.

_You brought this on yourself, _Howe mused, feeling no discomfort or guilt for the actions he carried out. Actions which he believed were for the greater good of Ferelden. His only regret was not seizing the opportunity sooner to carry out this much needed form of justice. The Couslands were traitors. They had been hording riches from foreign nations in return for favors.

They had supported the union of their eldest son to a daughter of an Antivan merchant. How Eleanor and Bryce could approve of this mingling of their bloodlines with an Antivan was beyond him. Didn't they understand that the offspring of that marriage would make the future Teyrn of Highever just as much Antivan as Fereldan.

It just wasn't right.

The Couslands were allowing foreigners to take through marriage what they never could in invasion.

They had to be stopped. Ferelden should be ruled by Fereldans. Howe understood this. He remembered why they fought in the Rebellion. He wouldn't forsake his duty and honor for his country for a few gold coins and promises from foreigners.

The union of this Antivan whore didn't even come with freeholders or sworn swords. When Howe asked what they were getting out of this union, Eleanor had told him the happiness of their son. It had taken all of his discipline not to sneer and roll his eyes at such a pitiful answer.

They were fools.

Highever was better off without them.

And here she lay now. Eleanor Cousland peppered with so many arrows she more resembled a pincushion then a proper Teyrna. _Where was your precious happiness now?_ He demanded of the corpse. _Your son's love brought you nothing but your undoing. _

He shook his head at their folly. It was just another grievance to add to the growing list of their sedition.

His eyes then drifted to the harlot herself, pleased to see the sword remained in her stomach. _It was a kindness, _he thought. Noticing no signs of rape as her gown surprisingly was still intact. No doubt, the men were eager to just finish her off without thinking about properly relishing their triumph. _Pity…_

Unlike the other corpses of the Cousland family, the fourth corpse was badly burnt. The only indicator that this charred husk was a child was by its small size.

"What happened to this one?" Howe asked, toeing the charred corpse with his boot.

"The fires," answered the soldier.

_Obviously, _Howe wanted to snap, but he restrained himself. "And we're sure this is the boy?"

The soldier gave him a blank look clearly caught off guard by the question. "Who else would it be, Your Grace?"

The temptation to hit him for his stupidity was great but Howe stayed his hand.

"It's not him, Your Grace," announced a new voice, as a man dressed in fine silverite armor approached them. A young man with short crop of blonde hair, and intelligent brown eyes which helped to give him a handsome look. This was Captain Chase, one of Howe's most trusted knights.

It was a pity that he was low born. He has reached his peak at Captain, and that promotion had been a generous boon on Howe's part for past services.

"What do ya mean?" asked the soldier sounding affronted. "Of course its him! It's a child ain't he?"

Howe ignored the soldier. "What makes you sure?"

"I was going over the area where they found the traitor," Chase gestured to the deceased former Teyrn. "And there are some things that just don't add up."

"What things?" Howe demanded, feeling his anger beginning to rise within his chest. He didn't need complications. He needed this transition of rulers to be done smoothly.

"It would be quicker if I just showed you, Your Grace."

Howe nodded. He was tired of this round-about talking. He didn't need words or hunches. Those were useless. He needed facts.

"Take me there."

Chase bowed and stepped aside to allow Howe to pass him. _This low born understood his status and place in this world. _

Where Howe couldn't trust some of his other well born knights or soldiers, he trusted Chase. Lowborn or not, he was dutiful, respectful, and left no stone unturned. His low birth also gave him an edge over some of the more pampered noble knights. Chase wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty. He could be gritty and ruthless if needed.

Captain Chase worked very hard for him, always striving to do his best. This was in part because Chase nursed a growing affection towards Howe's only daughter, Delilah. He should've squashed the boy's ill-conceived notions that he actually stood a chance of marrying a nobleman's daughter especially since that daughter was Howe's only one. He wasn't going to waste her on a low born knight. She would be used to secure an important alliance with a powerful Fereldan family.

Yet, instead of crushing the boy's misplaced dreams, Howe instead let slip that his loyalty and service would one day be properly rewarded. If that meant the Captain would believe that he could one day marry Delilah then the fault was with him, not Howe.

_Such false promises lead to very real results._

"Where was he found?"

"In the larder, Your Grace?"

"Truly?" Howe asked, greatly amused at that prospect.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And he was alone?"

Chase stiffened, "That's what I wanted you to see."

Howe didn't like that one bit. As they entered the kitchens, it was already stripped of food, and other provisions during the attack. The larder too was now bare; the only noticeable thing in the room was a large pool of blood that no doubt belonged to Bryce Cousland. He watched as Chase made his way over towards the pool of blood, kneeling beside it.

"Look, Your Grace."

_At what?_ Howe wanted to snap, but he controlled himself. Stepping closer to the pool of blood, his eyes followed where Chase was pointing to; at first he saw nothing, but looking closer he saw sticky red prints. Inspecting them further he made out three distinct tracks-A man, a dog, and a child.

He knew who they belonged to at once. It seemed Bryce's youngest had taken his nephew and his mabari war hound, but how…

"There's a secret door somewhere here." Chase seemed to have guessed what Howe was thinking. He pointed to the part where the bloody prints stopped just in front of the wall.

"It must be some sort of secret passageway that leads out of the castle." The Captain was groping the wall with his hands trying to find the entrance.

"They must be found at once," Howe declared. The last thing he needed was for his new rule to be questioned. If he was going to provide a better and more stable reign then he needed them apprehended at once.

"I want riders sent in all directions. Every town, farm, and home searched. Every rider on the road is to be questioned, and harassed if their memories are a bit fuzzy."

"Understood," Chase gave him a crisp salute. "I'll give the instructions to the men myself."

Howe nodded. It was times like these he was very pleased he had Chase on his side. Then again, the credit should go to Howe. It was he who saw the boy's talent, and ignored his low born station and gave him the opportunities to prove his worth.

"And for the soldier who presented me with the burnt corpse." That soldier would make Howe appear weak and foolish in front of not just his men, but all of Highever. That could not be tolerated.

"See to it that he is _properly_ rewarded."

Chase seemed to understand the hidden meaning since he nodded, crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. He left without another word.

_Edmund Cousland, _Howe mused.

There was a time when Howe had hoped to unite his family with the Couslands. A foolish notion now, but at the time when he made the betrothal suggestion it seemed an ideal match for the families. The union would have successfully united Amaranthine and Highever. It would turn them into the strongest and most formidable family in the Coastlands. The Couslands had the audacity to spurn his generous offer.

He was now better off, of course. They were traitors to Ferelden. However, it still prickled his pride that they had denied him. As if they were better than him, as if their family was better than his.

_The arrogance!_ Their foolish choices had cost them everything. Howe took some satisfaction in that, and more in seizing their lands for himself. _In the next Age no one will even remember the Cousland name._

His Delilah was better off without Edmund. The youngest Cousland was an arrogant little worm. He prided himself a knight because he won a few melee tourneys. _Ha_! He was nothing but a spoiled brat.

Besides Edmund Cousland had shown his true nature during the tourney in Highever…

Howe could still remember that day as if it happened yesterday and not eight years ago. Everyone throughout the country had come to Highever for the tourney, banns, freeholders, hedge knights, all of the Arls with their best knights and men-at-arms. Even the King and Crown Prince and their retainers had come to the tourney. King Maric was to present the winners of each event with their rewards. It was considered one of the finest tourneys Ferelden had seen since the Rebellion.

Edmund Cousland had won his event. Thoroughly trouncing hedge knights and the other would be knights who were pampered noblemen who fancied themselves soldiers when they dressed in armor and wielded swords.

In his victory celebration he besmirched Anora Mac Tir's name and reputation. Her betrothal to the Crown Prince had just been recently announced. His actions were tantamount to treason. He had the insolence to openly flaunt his close relationship with the Teyrn's daughter in front of the entire kingdom.

His insolence was unjustifiable despite his father's best efforts to soothe the situation over with King Maric and Teyrn Loghain. Edmund's actions deserved the noose not the lavish exile in Orlais he received. Six years he spent fostered by a wealthy and powerful Orlesian family.

That was his punishment for humiliating the kingdom. It was an outrage. It wasn't justice. Once more Bryce Cousland was able to flaunt his position and his power for the betterment of his family, not Ferelden.

Edmund even married an Orlesian noblewoman and was granted lands. His parents weren't ashamed of him. They were not embarrassed that their son had gotten himself exiled. No, they were happy for him and the life he had made for himself in Orlais. They had even gone to Orlais on several occasions to visit him.

It was all rather pathetic.

They believed happiness was the primarily motivation in life. That honor and mercy should be rewarded. They were sentimental fools, and it cost them everything: their lands, their titles, their legacy, and their lives.

The Cousland family prided themselves on their family's history and their lasting imprint on Ferelden. For all of their love of Ferelden and all their talk of pride and duty to their country, they had allowed their two sons to marry foreigners an Antivan for their eldest and heir, and an Orlesian for their exiled son.

_Hypocrites and traitors, that's what they were!_

Howe found some small form of fairness when he had heard that Edmund's wife had died. The boy hadn't deserved a lavished exile for what he did. He didn't deserve wealth, lands, or a family. He had deserved death. Even then he didn't suffer long since he was allowed back into Ferelden on an official royal pardon from King Cailan. The royal pardon had the fingerprints of Bryce Cousland all over it with his Orlesian ties and his influence over the impressionable king.

Thankfully, Ferelden was free of Bryce Cousland. Howe had seen to that.

The common folk were too stupid to see it right away, too stubborn and stuck in the old ways to see that by taking Highever Howe was securing their future. He was going to keep Ferelden for Fereldans. In the end, he was sure they would see reason, and they would love him for it.

Howe had returned to Cousland Hall. _No, Howe Hall, _he silently corrected himself.

Standing in the hall, he was pleased to see most of the bodies had been stripped, their valuables sorted in a handful of piles. He walked over towards a pair of soldiers who were sifting through the clothes of the dead. No doubt trying to find some lost jewelry or loose coin. They immediately stopped upon his approach, stiffening their posture, and bowing low.

"String them up in the market square," Howe ordered, gesturing to the four corpses of the Cousland family. Let the public for the time believe he had killed Oren as well. It would be true soon enough, and then he would add Edmund and the boy's corpse with the rest of his family. And no one would doubt who ruled Highever now.

Satisfied at their quick response, Howe left them just as they lifted up the corpse of Bryce Cousland and began to carry him out of the hall.

"Your Grace?" his aide came up alongside him. "The army is awaiting your orders."

He now possessed the largest army in Ferelden outside of Teyrn Loghain who controlled the bulk of the country's forces. But, right now the Teyrn was far south at Ostagar, leaving Howe's army unchecked in the Coastlands and in the north.

He had already decided that he would leave a sizable garrison behind with his newly pointed regent, his son Tomas to curb any resentment or misguided thoughts of rebellion that the people of Highever might have to their new liege lords.

However, the rest of his army would not be staying in Highever. They would become restless and bored and that could cause trouble in the area that Howe couldn't afford or wanted.

"We are to march to Denerim," Howe answered, "To offer our assistance to the Queen and to secure the capital."

"I'll inform the officers," replied the aide, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing.

_And if Loghain, King Cailan, and their forces perish at Ostagar then he would go to the capital to secure his bid to the throne, _ he silently added once the aide had left. A small smile bloomed on his lips at the thought of securing the crown for himself. He would rise higher than any Howe before him.

It was nothing less then what he deserved.


	3. 3: Kylon

**A/N: I just want to extend my thanks to everyone who is reading this story. **

* * *

**War of the Laurels**

**By Spectre4hire**

**3: Kylon**

"I'm tellin ya its true!" the voice sounded indignant.

"Bullshit," the second one scoffed. "It's just whore talk."

"She's reliable."

"If by getting giving you a few rashes," the second one observed, "then yeah, she's reliable."

Sgt. Robert Kylon had to grit his teeth. Listening to them was a true test of his discipline. It was just another patrol for him; another chance for him listening to his guards swap whore stories and gossip.

It was an expected part of his experience when it came to these patrols, but just because it was expected, doesn't mean he enjoyed listening to it. He simply had to endure it.

These were the men entrusted to protect Denerim, her citizens. It wasn't a comfort. Especially since now with the King gone, the city guard was now more heavily relied on. If worse came to worse, it would be them forced to defend the city.

_That was a troubling thought. _

Men who joined the city guard were not typically fighters, but sons of influential freeholders and merchants, who enjoyed the praise and the ability to boast of their progeny's service to the capital. It was a small blip up the social ladder. Whoever deemed having family members in the city guard worthy of upwards social movement must have been a few silvers short of a sovereign.

These men weren't expected to get in fights or scuffles, perish the thought of one them actually being injured. Then he'd be forced to go to the guard's father and explain to them that there was an actual danger in serving the guard. And Kylon's Guard Captain wouldn't approve either. He too enjoyed the benefits of handing out jobs to those families who could pay the small entrance fee.

Robert Kylon was in a broken system.

That didn't bother him because he understood that he lived in a broken world. He learned long ago the best he could do in a broken world is try to fix it, little by little. That's what he tried to do as a sergeant within the city guard. It wasn't an official occupation within the city guard, but a rank.

Sometimes it meant he enforced the law, other times it meant ignoring it, but as long as a problem got fixed, and the world became a little bit of a better place; Robert Kylon wasn't going to complain.

It helped that as sergeant he had a hand in training the recruits. Those willing to listen and get their hands dirty were the ones he focused on. It was them he tried to instill his perspective and thankfully many took to it.

He could see a difference.

It was little by little. It was slow but steady progress. He was getting results, and it made him pleased, and a bit proud in saying that the city was a better place now then it was six months ago.

He left the sons of merchants and noblemen to his superiors as much as he could. However, it was still expected of him to take them out on patrol on occasion. On days like today when he had to endure their presence he tried to keep his mouth shut and his eyes focused.

Robert let them talk, and brag, complain, and boast, and often times they tired themselves out and became more docile and willing to listen to him. Unfortunately that meant that he first had to listen to hours of their bluster.

"She was told by a sailor who was just in Highever." The argument continued. The first voice belonged to the son of a wealthy Amaranthine merchant. He had only been with the guard for less than a year. He was a decent enough fellow. He spent too much time at brothels for Kylon's taste, but wasn't as nasty or petty as other merchants sons that Robert had the ill-fated pleasure of knowing.

The second voice belonged to the third son of a powerful freeholder. Cursed by being the third son, his options had been limited with his oldest brother inheriting his father's land and wealth. The second brother had used the remainder of his family's wealth to become a knight. Penniless, the third son was left with a choice by his father-Chantry or City Guard.

"Sailors," the second one didn't seem won over by that source. "And what else did this whore tell you?"

"That he was coming this way."

That got Robert's attention, turning backwards to the two men whose voices he had been listening prattle on for the better part of their shift. "What is it you two are talking about?"

The two men looked startled at suddenly being addressed, and somewhat surprised that he had been listening to their conversation all this time.

"Arl Howe," answered the first one. "They say he sacked Highever, killed the Couslands, and claimed the Teyrnir."

"And I say it's all made up," the second one was shaking his head.

The first one gave him a reproachful look. "Not if you've ever heard of Howe's reputation."

"So Howe is coming here?" asked Kylon.

"Yes, with his forces," he answered, looking a bit smug that Kylon was taking interest in what he was saying.

"And I say it's not true," dismissed the second one. "He should be south with the King and the others at Ostagar."

"That is true," Kylon agreed, mulling over to the two stories they both had points in their favor, and it never hurt to be a little cautious, especially when it came to large forces moving towards the capital. He made a mental note to put it in his next report to his superiors.

"What do you think, ser?"

"That less arguing in our patrol may better serve the people."

Thankfully, the two heeded his words and fell silent.

_The people,_ Kylon looked around the city's market where they stood vigilant for any sign of criminal wrongdoing. In the market the number one problem the city guard faced was thievery. There were lots of vulnerable marks around the market, from genteel ladies mesmerized by the number of diverse wares, booths, and other goods that couldn't be found anywhere else in Ferelden.

It was also in the market where many of the taverns and brothels emptied out into. There the patrons were too drunk to be aware of their surroundings or the fact their purses were lighter or missing. Their drunkenness also meant to be watchful for signs of brawls and other violent altercations.

The Denerim Market was pivotal to the city's wealth and welfare. It was crucial that as guardsmen they did anything and everything to make sure that it continued to run smoothly and efficiently.

Every day more people flowed through the city, seeking shelter behind Denerim's high stone walls. This was the beginning tide of people who had lost their lands and homes to the darkspawn. They mostly inhabited the southern reaches of Ferelden that had been first hit by the darkspawn. Some had even been forced out of their land on orders of the King for their own safety. They were given some money and some supplies as well as a few soldiers who escorted them to the capital.

Kylon had been told by his superiors to expect them, but being told to expect such a growing host of refugees and actually seeing them were two different experiences. He knew this could only just be the beginning, if the King and his forces could not halt or curb the darkspawn at Ostagar then he was sure Denerim would soon be flooding with refugees. In that realization he sent a silent prayer to the Maker to grant the King and Teyrn Loghain victory at Ostagar.

Once the refugees reached Denerim they were on their own. When it came to finding work or a home that was their responsibility, not the Crown's. If they wanted to secure transport and leave that was their choice. They were brought here but it was up to them to decide what to make of their opportunity. Watching the flocks passing through, Kylon noticed two distinct outlooks and expressions that were common among the refugees.

There were some that looked hopeful as they took in the sights of Denerim. They took this as a blessing. This was their chance to improve the lives they left behind back in the south. Their eyes were wide and smiles bright as they breathed in the marvels of this city.

Many probably had never seen more than a handful of buildings and now they were looking at Fereldan's most important and beautiful city. This was the birthplace of Andraste with its historic Denerim Chantry while Drakon Tower stood tall and proud over the city, a testament of the Imperium's once considerable power.

Yet others didn't look so happy to be arriving. Their faces sullen, eyes downcast these were people who looked lost and terrified. They were tossed into an unfamiliar city expected to survive on their own. Already understanding that their chances were slim, they realized that they didn't belong here, that there wasn't much need for farmers behind the walls of Denerim.

Their outlooks were different, but they had one thing in common. They would be targeted, tormented, and taken advantage of. They would be ignored, spat on, and that was if they were lucky, if they weren't they'd be fleeced and stabbed and left to die in one of the many dark foreboding alleys that spread through this city like thin tendrils of a spider's web.

Robert Kylon understood that they would need his protection. The city was a better place than it was six months ago thanks to his efforts, but it was far from perfect. It was far from safe.

Until it was a safer place Kylon would have to pick up the slack. It was no small order, but he felt obligated as a man of the city guard to do what he could to protect and serve all those who needed it within these walls. For now he had to make do with what he had. A city guard stretched too thin, untested men, and corrupt superiors just to name a few of the obstacles in the sergeant's way.

_It wouldn't be worth doing if it wasn't a challenge, _he quietly surmised. He had already placed some of the more trustworthy guards he had on Alienage duty. After the nastiness that the Arl's son had done, the elves were ready to riot, and he couldn't blame them. Interrupting a wedding, abducting the brides, and then raping them…

It was too much for Kylon to stomach. He had sworn an oath of service to the Kendall family when he was sworn in to the city guard, but he wouldn't allow any oath to constrict him from doing what was right. He had found ways to circumvent the oath, putting his duty to the people over his sworn service to the Kendall family. In his duty to protect the people he did what many would not and included the elves, who most in this city thought of as nothing more than an indentured race.

If he wanted to protect the refugees then he needed to be patient and vigilant. The latter was easy. He was use to being vigilant. He had been that way ever since he joined the city guard all those years ago. Patience would be a problem, especially when it meant in the meantime that he would have to endure witnessing many of those he needed to protect be robbed and killed because at the moment they wouldn't have the manpower or the strength to help them.

_One step at a time, _he reminded himself.

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**A/N: We'll be back to Oren and Edmund in a few chapters. ****Until then need to set up the other main characters for this story and their respected story arcs.**

**I'm very excited about Kylon's role in this story. I think he brings unique insight, unbiased at the pending Civil War. He is more concerned about protecting the people of Denerim and the growing refugees then picking sides. We'll see where that gets him as this story progresses… **

**I couldn't find a canon first name for him so I gave him the name Robert.**

**Thanks for reading and don't forget to review. **


	4. 4: Anora

**A/N: I just want to extend my thanks to everyone who is reading this story. **

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**War of the Laurels**

**By Spectre4hire**

**4: Anora**

_It was strange not having them around. _

The Queen of Ferelden could not remember the last time she had been without both of them. In recent days before they went south to fight the darkspawn all her husband and father could talk about was strategy in how to defend Ferelden. Their opinions varied and heated debates could be heard, Anora had been relieved when they had finally come to a decision to go to Ostagar to try to stem back the darkspawn incursion.

Her father and husband had left the capital weeks ago to head to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn in what her husband believed in a battle that would once and for all end the darkspawn threat. Her husband's usual confidence had only soared after a series of earlier victories. Before he left for Ostagar he had assured her of their pending success.

It was not just victory Cailan promised, but changes. She could still remember his face when he said it, his smile was gone and his expression turned serious. It was one of the few times she could remember him without his smile and looking so stoic.

Deep down, it had troubled her.

Anora was not immune to the gossip that spread through the capital. She was aware of the blame that was being leveled on her by many of the nobles. Five years of marriage, and there had been no children born. Not even a pregnancy.

_Barren, _that's what they were calling her.

_Punishment _that was the excuse they gave. The Maker was punishing them for putting a commoner on the throne. To them her father was a Teyrn by name only. He had no noble blood. In the eyes of many the Mac Tirs were unwelcomed within the ranks of the older aristocratic families. They spoke in whispers, gossiped under the protection of the shadows.

Common birth or not, she has effectively ruled Ferelden these last five years. Cailan may be king, but it was Anora who was overseeing the steady growth of Ferelden. Slowly, but surely she was proud of how Ferelden was developing. It was her policies that had made Ferelden richer, had made Ferelden stronger. She was the reason why Ferelden had enough food stored to allow the country to endure a few rough harvests.

Anora was far from done. She had plans for opening up a University in Denerim. She wanted to attract the great minds of Thedas. She wanted to change the perception that Ferelden was still a backwards country. It was not just an army that curbed threats of invasion, but respect. She was painfully aware that Ferelden had little clout with the other nations of Thedas.

Yet, for all the good Anora has done for Ferelden, it was not enough for some. It would never be enough for those who honored blood, not skill. They respected a family's name, not a person's character.

This hadn't always been the life she envisioned.

There was a time when she never thought she would become queen.

Growing up in Denerim with Cailan, she had been aware of the possibilities of her marrying him, but the chances had been pretty slight. The same nobles who were blaming her for not giving Cailan an heir now, had been just as adamant in their protests when the offer had first been brought up by her father and Maric when Anora and Cailan were children.

When she was fifteen she was brought to Highever. It was there she would be tutored by Teyrna Eleanor Cousland who would teach her politics, court etiquette, as well as the other responsibilities that came with being a noblewoman. Anora spent two years in Highever, in that time she grew close to the Teyrna and the rest of the Cousland family. She considered the Teyrna a friend and a second mother who helped to fill the gap that her own mother had left behind when she died.

In her time in Highever, it was Edmund Cousland that she found herself drawn to. He was smart, talented, charming, and he had a certain sincerity to him that Cailan had always lacked. They had become quick friends. He was never intimidated by her intelligence. He saw her as an equal. He truly was Eleanor's son.

It didn't take long for her feelings towards him to develop into something beyond friendship. She was young and foolish, and at the time she didn't possibly believe that she would one day be betrothed to Cailan. So instead of stamping out the affection she felt towards Edmund, she allowed it to grow.

Their first kiss had taken place between the towering bookshelves of the library within Cousland Castle. She had only been in Highever for five months when they shared that kiss. Their secret romance only blossomed during the remainder of her two year stay in Highever. In their moments together she even allowed herself to secretly imagine them getting married and returning to Gwaren to rule as Teyrn and Teyrna. They were the dreams of a foolish girl.

Then her father came to Highever with the news that would change everything. It had been decided that she would marry Cailan. Her father and King Maric had made and agreed to the betrothal arrangement. One day she was going to be Queen. The news was going to be announced throughout Ferelden, and that she was to accompany her father back to Denerim.

She felt tightness in her chest as she remembered what came next. Torn between affection and ambition, in the end, the decision had been relatively easy. She wanted to be the Queen of Ferelden. Whatever feelings she may have had for Edmund paled at the desire to one day rule Ferelden. She had told herself it wasn't personal, just practical.

Anora could still remember telling Edmund about her pending betrothal and that they had been living in a foolish dream. She knew her words cut him deep, but she had to speak them, her words needed to be sharp, her tone needed to be blunt. In order for them to be able to move forward she had to effectively stamp out what they once had and make sure that it never saw the light of day.

Then the Highever tournament happened. It was the first time she saw him since she called off their romance and told him of her plans to marry Cailan. She had hoped the months apart would have had him finally see the reason for her decisions. It hadn't.

_Enough, _she quietly chastised herself. She didn't want to dwell on what happened next. The pain of those events still stirred within her like sharp thorn pricks coiled around her heart. She had wanted to bury what happened in Highever for so many years- Those memories, her feelings, her emotions and most importantly him.

"Your Majesty?" the thick Orlesian accented voice of her handmaiden, Erlina broke the Queen from her musings.

Anora turned to find her handmaiden standing in the doorway. She beckoned her in, watching as her handmaiden bowed before her before settling to stand in a position in front of the Queen's desk. "What is it, Erlina?"

"A letter came from one of your _friends_ in the Coastlands," Erlina presented said letter.

The Queen took the letter, opening it to find the vellum mostly blank except for a few words hastily scribbled down.

_The Laurels are dead. The Bear has seized their holdings._

Anora stared blankly up after finishing reading the encrypted message. Understanding quickly came to her at realizing the meaning behind the words. "Erlina," she turned towards her silent confidant. "Send for the Seneschal, please. I need to speak with him at once."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Erlina bowed, "Anything else?"

"Y-yes," Anora needed to maintain her composure, "A glass of wine." She ignored the worried look her handmaiden gave her, and was unable to understand the words Erlina spoke before she left, too focused on relaying the simple message over and over again in her head.

A few minutes later she found herself in her parlor sitting in her high back chair, a glass of wine in her hands. She needed something to soothe her nerves and settle her churning stomach. She took a long sip from the glass, thankful for the sweet taste and the calming effect the wine was slowly having.

_It had to be a mistake, _she thought, blindly grasping at any chance that this couldn't be true. Surely Howe wouldn't be so foolish as to think he would get away with this horrendous act…

"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?"

She looked up from her glass to see Seneschal Luwin standing before her. He immediately crossed his arms over his chest and bowed low. He was tall and thin, he had aged well in his service under her father. He was brought in as Seneschal for Anora and Cailan when the previous one died several years ago.

He kept his grey hair short, and his brown eyes still showed plenty of strength. His goatee was as grey as his hair and neatly trimmed. His large nose marred his otherwise plain features.

"Yes, I did." She turned her gaze to her trusted handmaiden, "Close the door, Erlina."

Erlina obliged. This wasn't a conversation that Anora didn't want to leave this room.

Luwin's public position was overseeing the king's justice and administration of the palace's servants. However, secretly the Seneschal helped to oversee the various network of spies and agents Anora and him had orchestrated throughout Ferelden and parts of Thedas. Making him one of Anora's most trusted advisors.

"Take a seat," she gestured to an empty chair across from her.

He nodded his thanks, sitting down.

Erlina stepped forward offering him a glass of wine which he graciously took with a nod. "It is true, Your Majesty."

She felt her heart clench tightly. So they were all gone. She considered the Couslands a second family and Highever a second home. For a second the face of Edmund came to her, but she wouldn't allow it to stay, pushing it away. She now had this painful fresh wound to deal with and she couldn't allow herself to reopen old ones.

"I feared as much," she barely recognized her own voice. It was soft and weak. She needed to stay composed. Eleanor always taught her to remain composed. _Oh Eleanor, _her heart gave another painful lurch. _My friend you will be avenged._

"I want Howe in chains." Anora suddenly demanded, her calm demeanor crumbling to the cold fury that was storming within her. "This cannot be tolerated."

"Your Majesty it is more difficult than that," The Seneschal reminded her gently. "Howe has an army at his back. We have nothing but the city guard."

"Where is his army heading?"

"He's marching here."

That took Anora by surprise, she would've thought that he would return to Amaranthine to gather his strength and rally his supporters for the judgment that was sure to be coming once her husband and father returned. To hear him coming to Denerim, he was acting as if he had nothing to fear, no reason to be punished. It didn't sit well with Anora.

"May I see the letter you received?" Luwin's question broke Anora from her musings on Howe and what games he was playing at.

She presented him the letter watching him read it. She noticed his brows furrowed and his lips twitched. "Is there something they missed?"

"Yes," he looked up. "I received a message from a _friend_ in the Bannorn."

"What does he say?"

"That not all the Couslands were killed," he returned the letter to her. "That Bryce's youngest escaped with the heir. Howe is quietly looking for them."

_Edmund and Oren,_ Anora realized at once. A spark of hope ignited in her chest at realizing that they were not all slaughtered. His face returned to her, but she was just as persistent at pushing it way. _That life is over,_ she reminded herself.

"Do you know where he would go?"

"East," she answered. "He would come here to Denerim." She knew he would demand a royal audience to speak his justifiable grievance towards Howe. Was that why Howe was coming to Denerim? Was he intending to stop Edmund from reaching the capital first?

Luwin nodded, "Perhaps that is why Howe is marching east, sending out scouts and riders to try to capture him before he reaches us."

"My thoughts exactly," Anora agreed. "What about his brother?"

"Fergus left Highever with their forces. He is headed towards Ostagar, oblivious to the carnage that has happened in his home."

"Do you think Howe has plans for him as well?"

"Surely he does," Luwin answered. "As far as we know, Fergus may have already been killed by an assassin's blade."

She took another sip of wine. The thought of Fergus being betrayed and killed on the road to Ostagar was not an image she wanted to keep.

He brought his hands together under his chin while his elbows rested on the arms of the chair. "However, I don't think Edmund plans on coming here."

"What do you mean?" Anora frowned. "Where else would he go?"

"South Reach."

_Of course, _Anora thought, realizing her miscalculation. The Arling of South Reach was the seat of the Bryland family. Eleanor was Leonas' older sister. He was never friendly with Howe, and surely, he wouldn't tolerate his own sister being killed in cold blood, Cousland or not.

"And of Howe's approach?"

"We welcome him, Your Majesty," Luwin answered simply.

"Welcome him?" Anora repeated, unable to hide her fury at the notion.

He looked at her sympathetically. "We have to, Your Majesty." He brought his hands to rest on his lap. "We cannot repel him with the city guard. So we must act the dutiful host, let us listen to his story and the causes for his actions."

Anora understood the plan now. "We stall until my husband and father return with their forces."

Luwin smiled, "exactly, Your Majesty." He drank one more sip from the goblet before raising it as if toasting. "Howe will not be able to escape justice."

"Keep me informed of any movement or sightings of Edmund and Oren," Anora instructed. "I want our men to get him before Howe's."

"I couldn't agree more, Your Majesty," He stood up, bowing low, "I will keep you informed by the hour."

"Thank you," she watched him go. She didn't like the idea of Howe entering the capital a free man and the self proclaimed Teyrn of Highever. She would have to swallow the bitter taste and push down her own growing fury towards the man if she wanted justice to be served. Anora wouldn't allow herself to tip her hand to him.

_She would get justice for the Couslands,_ she silently vowed. She could only hope Edmund and Oren were around to see it.

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**A/N: This is AU. I will be taking liberties so not everything will match up with DA canon. I will be adding additional background to characters, and changing others to fit this story. Some characters may also appear a bit OOC, but I do try to stay true to the spirit of the characters. **

**I know it's not 'canon' but I liked the idea of Eleanor being a Bryland. Especially since Leonas fought with Howe and Bryce during the Rebellion. I'm very much looking forward to exploring his character and the important role that Leonas will have in this story.**


	5. 5: Fergus

**Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I'm pleased that you guys are enjoying this story.**

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**War of the Laurels**

**By Spectre4hire**

**5: Fergus**

"Right now?" Fergus tried to keep the exasperation out of his tone, but he was failing. It was difficult. _Oh, so very difficult._

"Yes, milord," replied the elf meekly. The tips of the boy's ears had gone scarlet in embarrassment.

Fergus Cousland felt some of his anger deflate. It wasn't fair of him to take out his frustration on the poor boy. "Very well," he relented, "Tell His Majesty that I will see him shortly."

The boy bowed low before scurrying off.

Watching him scamper off, only made Fergus feel guiltier.

"Isn't it the darkspawn we're supposed to be fighting," Lt Finley was grinning. "Not poor messengers."

Fergus rolled his eyes at his lieutenant's crack. It wasn't Fergus' fault. He and his forces of Highever had only just arrived after more than a week of marching. And already he was being summoned to see the king. And this particular moment Fergus really didn't want to see his king, he just wanted to rest.

He was sore, and tired, and smelly, and sweaty, and grumpy, very grumpy.

"I suppose I should see what the king wants," Fergus said glumly.

"Aye, you should," Finley agreed, "I'll have the men break for camp."

Fergus made his way over to the king's camp. His body was stiff, but he made sure he looked presentable as he made his way through the main camp in what he called his _lordly strides_. He didn't want his soldiers to snicker if they saw him wobbling and wincing. Part of being a nobleman after all was to look and act the part even through pain and discomfort.

"The King and the Teyrn await your presence," greeted the armored guards outside the flaps of the king's tent. One of them held the flap open for him.

Kingly, that was the word Fergus would use to describe the interior of the kings' tent. It was spacious, well furnished, with rich colored drapes that gave it a warm and inviting feel. He was under no illusions that when his own tent was set up that it would be a quarter this magnificent and less than half its size, if he was lucky. Nor would he have the fine furniture that was idly placed throughout the interior.

He found the king towards the middle of the tent where some natural light shined down through a well conceived opening coming from the tent's top. He was hunched over a table, when Fergus moved closer he noticed what had the king's attention, maps. Maps of Southern Ferelden, a map of Ostagar, and there was even a crude map of the northern parts of the Korcari Wilds, many of which looked ancient. Fergus had to wonder if the king had to pull these maps out of the Chantry archives.

It was Teyrn Loghain who was first to notice his arrival. The stoic faced general nodded stiffly, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over Fergus' haggard appearance before returning to the maps on the table.

"Fergus!" greeted the always boisterous and kind hearted king. Cailan was just as Fergus remembered: tall, handsome, warm eyes, kind smile, and charming.

"Your Majesty," Fergus said, bowing low, his lips twitched when his eyes met Cailan's, who looked thoroughly amused at the protocol.

The King moved around the table in quick large strides, grinning ear-to-ear as he clapped Fergus on the back. "It's about time you showed up." He laughed, "I was afraid I'd have to kill all the darkspawn myself!"

Fergus shared a laugh with his king. He could feel his terse demeanor shifting and his soreness lifted. It was always difficult to be in a bad mood around the king. His charm and genuine warmness were infectious. It was a gift, his ability to soften up his opponents with his warm tone and friendly demeanor.

"So many darkspawn to kill so little time."

"Exactly," Cailan was still smiling. "We've missed you in our earlier battles."

"All victories if I recall," Fergus went to the table, Cailan was right beside him. A friendly hand on his shoulder, there were many markings on the map around Southron Hills which Fergus deduced must be where the earlier battles had been fought.

"That's right, all victories," Cailan happily agreed, pointing to one particular mark made on the map on the edge of the Korcari Wilds. "That was a battle, Fergus!" A nostalgic expression flickered across the king's young handsome face. "I slew near two dozen darkspawn myself with nothing but this sword." Cailan fondly tapped the hilt of his greatsword which was resting on the table. "I fought with the Grey Wardens." He was still smiling. "It was a sight to behold!"

"I'm sorry I missed it," Fergus said. "This sounds like the stories bards yearn to tell."

That got Cailan's smile to only grow, which Fergus had thought impossible.

"That is enough of that, I think," Loghain drawled, speaking for the first time and curbing Cailan's enthusiasm. "You talks of battles as songs to be written."

Cailan shrugged off Loghain's disapproval as easily as if it was a winter cloak on a warm spring day. He dropped his hand on Fergus' shoulder and made his way back over to his side of the table beside the Teyrn. "You may have your chance at action, Fergus."

"What do you ask of me, your Majesty?" Fergus asked. He had been secretly hoping the task would be to lead the vanguard of the king's forces into battle.

"Here," Loghain gestured to a wide swath of territory within the northern portion of the Korcari Wilds.

"Is that the spot of our next battle?"

"Not exactly," Cailan said.

"We need you to take a small scouting party to scout this area," Loghain instructed.

"Scout?" Fergus knitted his brows together, hoping he didn't come across as too disappointed or disrespectful at the task given to him.

Cailan gave him an apologetic look. "Loghain believes it's important to better understand what we're up against and to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us."

"But surely," Fergus began, making sure to keep his tone respectful before he continued in his protest. "There are others whose station would befit this as an honor?"

"The Teyrn wants veteran men," Cailan explained, "and a seasoned leader."

Loghain was nodding, "Last thing we need is some foolhardy Bann or hedge knight itching for some glory and wealth traipsing through the Korcari Wilds with no sense of what they're doing."

"So you send the man who already has both," Fergus cracked dryly.

"I know this is not what you wanted," Cailan said sympathetically.

_You got that right, _Fergus mentally replied, but had the sense not to say that out loud to Cailan. He may be his friend, but he was also his king. And Fergus was already testing that friendship by protesting this task in the first place, "And what of Highever's forces?"

"They will be put under my command," Loghain answered.

"Until your father arrives with Howe and his forces from Amaranthine," Cailan finished.

"Very well," Fergus relented, he never could say no to Cailan. It could be rather infuriating.

That easy charming smile was back on Cailan's face. "Excellent," he rapped his knuckles across the table. He turned towards the Teyrn. "I told you he would do it."

"You never should have asked him," Loghain voiced his disapproval. "You are the king, you should have ordered him." The Teyrn of Gwaren's eyes shifted towards Fergus, appraising him. "There should have been no debate or argument, just an affirmation."

Fergus squirmed on the spot. He felt a sliver of guilt worm into his heart at the Teyrn's words. _He was right, _he mentally agreed. He had tried to use his status and friendship with the king to weasel out of his task, because he didn't find it worthy.

Cailan on the other hand didn't seem to agree. He waved a dismissive hand as if trying to shoo away the Teyrn's words from his tent. "That's enough of that, Loghain." He moved over around the table where a silent servant was standing, who was holding a tray carrying three goblets. "Come Fergus have a drink with me before you're off."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He hadn't seen or heard the servant come in, but Fergus couldn't deny that a drink seemed sorely needed right now. He nodded his thanks when he took the offered goblet from the servant. Taking a small sip he was pleasantly surprised by the sweet taste.

He silently watched as the king drank deep from his goblet. When finished, Cailan put it down, smacking his lips together. "Who's at Highever?"

Fergus hesitated, "my brother, your Majesty." He always liked to avoid the topic of his brother when he was in the presence of his friend and king due to that unfortunate incident back in Highever all those years ago involving his brother and Cailan's betrothed, as well as Loghain's daughter-Anora.

He glanced over at the taciturn Teyrn who had taken a goblet as well, but hadn't looked to have taken a sip. Like always, his face was impassive, his blue eyes always watching. It was intimidating. His silence just as much, remembering how stoic Loghain had been at the tourney when his daughter's _purity_ had been questioned.

Fergus wasn't sure it was a good idea to keep the topic on his brother while in the company of the two men who Edmund had slighted most that day. However, he also knew that his family was indebted to King Maric and King Cailan for not killing his brother after what he did. It was an act that the Couslands would not forget and would continue to thank the Theirins for in the years to come.

"My brother would be most annoyed with me if I did not convey his gratitude about your royal pardon."

"Think nothing of it," Cailan was helping himself to a second goblet.

"You are too kind, Your Majesty," Fergus took another sip of the delicious wine. "Your aptitude in being able to forgive others is a great gift. Others would not be so generous when their honor had been-"

"Had been what?" Calian looked amused. "Slighted?" He made a face. As if he didn't quite believe that to be the case. "The incident has been a bit romanticized don't you think?"

Fergus snuck a glance at Loghain, still as a statue unmoving, only watching. He turned back to the King, unsure what to say. When it came to politics he understood that it was important never to admit your own personal feelings, no matter if asked or not, so he lied.

"I agree, your Majesty." He swirled the remaining wine in his goblet. "I'm surprised the story has lasted this long. I would've thought that its legs would have stopped carrying it years ago." He finished his wine in one greedy gulp before putting down his goblet.

"I'm sure Highever is in capable hands with your brother." That was Loghain, speaking for the first time since the conversation had shifted away from strategy. "I think it best if I retire, your Majesty. There is still much to do."

"Of course, Loghain," Cailan waved off his good father and general of his armies.

"It was good seeing you, your Grace," Fergus bowed his head more out of reverence of Loghain's heroics then for the title of Teyrn that he now possessed.

Loghain gave the heir of Highever a stiff nod before leaving the tent.

He wasn't going to admit it out loud, but Fergus was silently relieved with the Teyrn's departure. He felt an unspoken tension was in the room especially when his brother became the focal point of the conversation. Not to mention Loghain's impassive expression and blunt personality didn't lighten many rooms he walked into.

Cailan seemed to be thinking along similar lines, "Now we can smile and laugh without fear of being chided."

And laugh Fergus did at the king's remark.

Cailan gestured to two polished and well cushioned chairs. "However, Loghain is right your brother is sure to be capable of handling the affairs of Highever until you and your father's return." Cailan took his seat and was given a third goblet from the silent servant which Cailan graciously accepted.

"Yes, my brothers always had a way with that sort of thing." Fergus took his seat, sitting across from his king and friend. Before his brother's exile there had been popular gossip throughout Highever that it was Edmund not Fergus who was more deserving to be named the Heir of the Teyrnir. It had worried his brother even though it shouldn't have, and it had been unfair of Fergus to think that way of his brother.

He was ashamed to admit it, but there was a small often unheard part of Fergus Cousland who had been relieved when Edmund had been exiled, which all but secured Fergus' claim as the heir to the Teyrnir. It was something that still haunted him. He loved his brother, and despite his brother's faults, Edmund was fiercely loyal and knew he would never turn on Fergus or Oren.

"There's always been a Cousland in Highever." Fergus felt silly repeating the words his father had told him and Edmund so many times growing up, but he also felt proud. It was his family. The Couslands have controlled Highever since the Towers Age, centuries have passed, but his family remained. Endured through the strife, and flourished with the triumphs.

"I like that," Cailan smiled.

Fergus returned his friend's smile. "Thank you, your Majesty."

Cailan leaned forward in his chair. "Enough of this etiquette, let's forget I am king and you are the future Teyrn." He brought his fingers together. "We are just friends so let us drink and tell stories like we use to."

Fergus liked the idea of spending a few hours not worrying about the darkspawn threat or fretting over Oren and Oriana who were safely back in Highever. He didn't want to focus on the underwhelming and disappointing task that he had just received. To just spend some time with his friend to talk and laugh, joke and share stories with one another. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"I think I would like that."

* * *

**A/N: I was always curious with how Fergus would react to such a demeaning task as scouting and foraging when his nobility probably would have had him command a larger and more important role in the coming battle. I mean this is the Heir of Highever and he's out scouting? Maybe its just me, but I really don't believe Fergus would have been particularly pleased with the assignment. He probably would have seen it as a slight. **

**Even though Fergus' task/role was probably designed from a gaming/story issue with the Human noble origin. I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps there was another reason why he got such a task. A ploy by Loghain to make sure the Heir of Highever wouldn't become a thorn in his side after Ostagar...**

**It's just a thought. I always like Fergus despite his limited screen time in Orgins. I also liked the idea of Fergus having been friends with Cailan. **

**Thanks for reading.**


	6. 6: Oren

**Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I'm pleased you all are enjoying this story. **

* * *

**War of the Laurels**

**By Spectre4hire**

**6: Oren**

_Papa will come._

Oren knew it.

Uncle knew it too.

He told Oren that Papa would come back from Ostagar with King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain to bring Howe to justice.

_Papa will come._

Just repeating the words brought comfort and strength to Oren. Papa will come and fix everything.

Oren stifled a yawn.

They had been walking days and most nights. He hadn't really been counting. He didn't want to.

He didn't mind being tired. It helped Oren forget. He wondered if that was why Uncle was pushing him so hard so that Oren could forget. Uncle was always keeping him busy even when they stopped walking. He allowed Oren to take care of Sarim or gather wood, prepare the fire or their food.

Since he was so tired Oren found sleep easier to come by then what it had been the first night or two. His nightmares weren't as bad either. He was too tired to be scared. So he mostly dreamed of her, she was always smiling at him. She tousled his hair. She read to him. And she would always tell him how much she loved him.

He felt a squirmy feeling in his tummy at the thought of his mama.

"Oren?"

He looked up to see Uncle was further up the road then him. Sarim had been at Oren's side, but there was a wide gap between them and Uncle.

They had been traveling along this road for the past two days, and nights. They were headed into a village which Oren couldn't remember the name of. His Uncle had told him it was a risk, but that if they remained cautious then they would be able to slip through without being noticed.

"You need to stay with me."

"I know," Oren ducked is head, "I'm sorry, Un-"

"Papa," he corrected him.

"Papa," he repeated, it felt strange saying it to Uncle though, but he had made him practice it day and night. Oren wasn't allowed to call him Uncle anymore even when they were alone, it was always Papa. Even though his real Papa would soon come back to them, but for now Oren had to call Uncle, Papa.

It was all part of Uncle's plan. He devised a new story for them, a new life with new identities.

Oren had been initially excited at the prospect of being someone else. He remembered in his stories of Black Fox, when he and his group would change their identities to help infiltrate a stuffy noble's party to rob him and give the wealth back to those who needed it.

A part of him didn't want to be Oren Cousland anymore. Oren had lost his mother, his family, and his home. Oren Cousland was always sad or tired or both. He didn't want to wake up sobbing or shaking after one of his bad dreams. He wanted to be brave again. He wanted to be happy again.

However, changing their identities, giving them new names, and a new reason for traveling was more difficult then Oren had thought. He thought it would be fun and exciting, but it wasn't. He was confused. It was so hard keeping it altogether. He forgot his new name so often Uncle would call him and Oren wouldn't know who Uncle was referring to.

He hadn't thought it would be so difficult to shed Oren Cousland. As much as he wanted to slip out of it, he couldn't. His name may have changed, but Oren Cousland's emotions, fears, and memories remained. They were constantly clashing with the new character and identity Uncle had given him. It was so confusing, Oren's head hurt.

Uncle was also expecting him to lie. His mama and papa always taught him never to lie, that no good could come from it. Now, Uncle was telling him that he had to lie and that if Oren couldn't then their lives would be in danger.

Oren felt as if he was being pulled in two different directions. He wanted to listen to both his parents and to his Uncle, but he couldn't. He had to choose. He had to lie or not lie.

He was nervous. He was scared. He bit his lower lip not wanting it to tremble, not wanting to show his Uncle that he was having any difficulty with what was being asked of him. He had been giving him new responsibilities and Oren was desperate in not wanting to disappoint him.

Uncle was watching him closely. His green eyes could be very intimidating. He was frowning too. It didn't bring any comfort to Oren.

"Your mum?"

_He was testing him, _Oren realized, _testing him again, _he silently added. It seemed the only time his Uncle would talk to him now was when he wanted to test Oren on their new identities or when he was giving Oren his responsibilities for the night. It made him sad that his Uncle didn't want to talk to him about anything else anymore.

Oren was always silently hopeful that when his Uncle asked for him that this time his Uncle would tell him something else, anything else. A story, a joke, a compliment, but Oren hadn't received any of those from his Uncle in the past few days.

"She's a merchant in Highever," Oren didn't want to keep his Uncle waiting. He remembered his Uncle telling him that they shouldn't shy away where they were from. It would be suspicious, and that the people looking for them were expecting them to say anywhere but Highever.

His Uncle brought his fingers through his beard. His faced remained unchanging. "What does she sell?"

_Why can't you tell me a story, Uncle? _Oren wanted to ask. Uncle used to tell him the best stories. "She sells wares from her home country."

His green eyes remained on him, unflinching. "Which is?"

"Antiva?" Uncle had told him that the most convincing lies were always rooted in the truth.

He didn't seem impressed, a sigh escaped his lips. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

Oren didn't like making his uncle mad or disappointed and he seemed to have done both. "I'm telling you."

Uncle stopped frowning; instead a small but proud smile appeared on his lips that instantly relieved Oren's fluttering tummy. He playfully tousled his hair. "Good, you can do this."

He couldn't help but return his Uncle's smile, relishing the affection his Uncle was showering him with. It was a small glimpse of who is Uncle had used to be before the attack.

Oren couldn't really remember his Uncle that much when he use to live in Orlais. He had a few memories of him. He knew his Uncle use to smile and laugh more. His Aunt he remembered even less of, just that she was pretty and kind to Oren, giving him sweets and hugs.

One particular memory Oren had was when Uncle took him to a nearby stream by his home in Orlais and the two ended up swimming and playing into the night until his mum had to drag Oren out of the water. She scolded Uncle for letting Oren out so late, but papa had just laughed, and even mama couldn't stay angry with Uncle for too long.

He could still remember last year how happy he had been when mother and father had told him that Uncle would be returning to Highever and would be living with them. Oren remembered that his parents weren't as happy as he was, and when he asked them why, it was mother who answered telling him that Edmund's wife, Oren's aunt had died.

When his Uncle did return to Highever, Oren had been so happy to see him, but his Uncle wasn't smiling or happy. He didn't pick Oren up, swing him in his arms or toss him in the air before catching him like he use to do. He hadn't tousled Oren's hair. He just nodded in Oren's direction and walked right past him.

Oren had never seen his Uncle look so sad, until the attack…

"We're almost there."

Oren blinked, looking to see Uncle had stood up and was looking at Oren strangely.

Not wanting to go through the questions again, Oren gave him a tiny nod.

It seemed to work. Uncle patted his shoulders before saying. "My son can do this."

_But I'm not your son!_ The worried voice in Oren wanted to shout, wanted to cry, but he didn't. Oren couldn't let him down. So he remained silent and thought up the words that still provided him with strength and comfort.

_Papa will come. _

* * *

The inn was loud and crowded when they entered. Most of the tables were filled with men drinking. A bard was sitting on a stool by the fireplace, plucking at the strings of his lute and singing in a sweet voice. The bard's eyes watched them walk across the Inn while he continued to sing his song when his eyes met Oren's. The bard only smiled and winked at him before turning away.

Oren tightened his grip on Uncle's hand. Thankfully, most men dispersed when they walked past, whether through intimidation of Uncle or Sarim or a combination of both, Oren didn't know.

"What do ya need?" asked an old lady. She had grey hair, an unkind face, and a big mole on her chin.

"Room for the night," his uncle answered.

She turned her eyes towards Oren and it took all of his courage not to squirm under her intimidating stare. "What's your business here?"

"We're travelers," his uncle responded, bringing Oren to stand in front of him, placing his hands on Oren's shoulders. "We're returning to Highever."

Oren silently watched the innkeeper purse her lips surveying his uncle, but he didn't flinch or waver he simply met her stare. It was the innkeeper who broke eye contact first with a shrug, "Sure I have a room if you have the coin."

"We do," he withdrew a handful of silvers from his coin purse. "We'd also appreciate a hot meal." He pushed a few copper pieces towards her.

She snatched them up, "Sure we got plenty of both." She eyed one of the silver pieces before turning back to them. "I didn't get your names."

"We didn't give you any," his uncle answered with a smile. "But you may call me Aedan." His hands remained on Oren's shoulders. "And this is my boy, Matty."

Oren didn't know where Uncle had gotten his name, but Oren's name he knew was short for Mather. The famous Cousland who helped fight the werewolves with his wife Haelia. It was one of Oren's favorite stories and Uncle used to tell it the best before bedtime.

She seemed satisfied by their answer. "I'll have someone bring you some food and ale."

"Thank you," Uncle led Oren through the maze of tables and people who were drinking, laughing, and talking. Most ignored them, but Oren found a few whose gaze lingered on them just like with the bard.

Oren wanted to flinch or fidget, or look away from their stares out of fear, but he couldn't. His Uncle had told him that Matty had nothing to fear, he had done nothing wrong. _We must act the part,_ he told Oren, if we are to be successful_._

Matty might have nothing to fear, but what about Oren? He had everything to fear. They had killed his mama, and his family, and took his home. They were hunting him. How could he be Matty and pretend to be okay when he looked and felt like Oren?

He looked over towards Uncle who didn't seem to be struggling the same way Oren was. His expression loose, a smile on his lips. He had slipped into the role of Aedan as if it was as simple as putting on a new cloak. He didn't look to be dealing with any confusion. His Uncle looked like he belonged here. His Uncle really looked like Aedan, the merchant from Highever.

"This is perfect," His uncle said when they reached their table.

Oren didn't understand what was so perfect about it. It looked like a regular old round table just like all the others, the only difference was that this was one was tucked in a corner. "What do you mean?"

"It gives us some privacy, Matty," Uncle was always playing the part of Papa. He tousled Oren's hair, but it wasn't with the same affection he had done earlier on the road. This time it seemed force, as if he was only doing it to play up his role as Oren's father. The realization made Oren's tummy clench.

His uncle remained oblivious to Oren's discomfort. "It also allows us to watch the door and make sure no one gets the jump on us." He took the seat with the back to the wall.

He felt a painful twinge in his tummy that almost caused Oren to wince as he remembered those stares from the bard and some of the other patrons. _Were those the kind of people who wanted the jump on us?_

Oren was thankful when he felt Sarim's hulking mass curl up beneath his dangling feet. He gave the mabari a few tender pats on the head before turning back to Uncle whose eyes were taking in everything that was going on behind Oren. He wanted to see what was happening too, he turned to do so, but Uncle stopped him.

"Don't," he whispered, his smile remained on his lips, but Oren could see the tension in his face. "Stay looking at me, or Sarim."

Put out by Uncle's order, Oren still obeyed it, but at the moment he didn't want to look at his Uncle. So he kept his eyes down on the table, seeing that past customers had carved various words and images into the wood.

"Here you all are."

Oren's eyes looked up at the sight of the young, pretty lady who brought them their food. She was all smiles when she presented them with their meal. His nose picked up on the delicious scents which caused his mouth to water. Looking down to see their meal consisted of cooked chicken, with fresh bread, and a few apples.

"Thank you," Oren said, looking up from his plate to see she was smiling at him.

"Of course," she was pouring Uncle his ale.

Oren noticed her eyes were on Uncle, and her smile only seemed to grow when Uncle thanked her for the drink. He suddenly remembered grandpapa's words, _so this is a wench._

They ate silently. The occasional noise coming from Sarim, whose soft whines were rewarded with bits of meat, but not much, the chicken was greasy, seasoned, and delicious. It wasn't until Oren took a few greedy bites of the chicken did he realize how much he had grown sick of stale bread and salted pork.

"Can we stay here longer, Uncle?" Oren asked, licking his fingers after finishing up his chicken. He could get use to eating like this. He didn't realize his mistake until he looked up to see Uncle's gaze had sharpened, his eyes hardened as they looked around to see if anyone else had picked up on Oren's mistake.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Oren squeaked. Not wanting Uncle to be mad at him.

Before his Uncle could correct him, she returned to their table. Smiling, as she gave Uncle a second cup of ale.

"This your son?"

"Yes, he is," Uncle answered, sounding proud.

It was enough to make Oren smile.

"He's a handsome lad," she cooed, she brushed her fingers through Oren's hair, smiling as she did. Oren didn't mind, he liked it, she had a soft touch and did it the same way mama use to.

When she finished she turned back to Uncle leaning over to whisper something in his ear and he smiled at whatever she said but he shook his head when she finished. Her smile faltered, and she looked sad, but when she turned to see Oren looking at her, she smiled at him before she leaft their table.

Oren didn't like to see her sad. "What did she want?"

Uncle took a bite into his bread. He looked confused at Oren's question, "She….She," he swallowed the food in his mouth before continuing. "She wanted to see me later."

That made Oren happy. "Did you say yes?"

"No, I declined," he said, with a shrug before taking a deep sip from of his cup.

"Oh," Oren said, picking up the last few crumbs from his plate and offering them to Sarim who gladly took them. After gobbling it up, Sarim licked Oren's hand and fingers clean. It was enough to make Oren giggle.

"You all finished?" Uncle was already out of his seat and moving towards him.

Oren nodded, but before he could push his chair away from the table to stand up, Uncle wrapped his large arms around him, lifting Oren out of the seat effortlessly. Oren squeaked in surprise, but he smiled all the same, it had been a while since Uncle carried him like this.

His arms wrapped around Uncle's neck, but not tight enough to cause him any discomfort. Oren buried his face in his shirt. He could pick up the rhythmic and soothing beating of Uncle's heart. Oren's feet dangling in the air, as Uncle carried him with ease across the room. He could hear voices from patrons, as they pass them, but can't make out what their saying. So he focuses on listening to Sarim's paws padding across the floor beside them.

Oren knew when they reached the room because Uncle had to jostle him in his arms, but Oren stubbornly clung to him and was thankful when Uncle didn't try to make any attempt to put Oren down. Right now Oren didn't want to stand, he just wanted to stay in Uncle's arms. They make him feel safe.

He heard the creak of their door, but Oren kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the room they will be spending the night in. He liked to pretend that their back at Cousland Castle and that Uncle is carrying him back to his room after finishing one of the games they use to play. It was enough to make Oren smile against Uncle's shirt.

It was the first time he thought about home without wanting to cry.

He could feel Uncle bend over before gently releasing Oren from his grip, feeling the soft mattress beneath him, he reluctantly let go. Oren opened his eyes to see his Uncle's face in front of him, a smile on his lips and his green eyes shimmering with warmth that Oren hasn't seen since the attack.

"Get some sleep," he kissed Oren's forehead, before playfully tousling his hair. It brought a warm feeling to Oren's chest, settling his fluttering tummy.

He silently watched as Uncle dragged a chair from the corner and brought it to rest in front of the door. He caught the glint of steel on Uncle's lap and knew it to be the family sword.

"I know you don't sleep sitting up." His Uncle caught him, but he's not mad. He only chuckles.

Oren giggled, "sorry."

"It's okay," His Uncle replied. His words were soft, but they still carry across the room without trouble. They sounded as if he was saying them right beside Oren. When he spoke again, however his words are not soft. He sounded uncertain. "I…I"

"Uncle?" Oren wasn't smiling or giggling. Uncle's tone and stuttering was enough to stop that. Oren didn't remember Uncle ever looking or sounding uncertain. Uncle was always brave and confident.

"It's n-nothing," Uncle sighed. "Try to get some sleep, Matty. We have a big day tomorrow."

"Oh." Oren said softly, his hope and happiness deflate as he rests his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. He sniffled, but he was sure it's too soft for Uncle to hear. He felt Sarim's bulking mass jump onto the bed, settling beside him and resting his head on Oren's legs. "Good night, boy."

Nestling himself beneath the blankets, he didn't want to think about Uncle. So instead he recites the same words he does every night.

_Papa will come. _


End file.
